How Could This Happen To Me
by Laura Ann Watson
Summary: Set sometime after "The Great Game" after thinking they he has escaped a gunman, he answers the door to his brother. Sherlock hasn't escaped after all...
1. Prologue

"I'm not in shock!" John had kept on telling everyone, hitting away doctors hands with frustration, praying they'd get the message and leave him alone. He'd hardly slept for the past four nights, and if he was anything, it was tired. The neurologists had been the worst. John, in his desperate attempt to protect Sherlock, had dragged his friend to the floor, and had hit his own head on the tiled floor of the hallway of 221B. But he was feeling nothing more than guilt, feeling partly responsible for the motionless body he saw before him, lay in the hospital bed, attached to machines, tubes going down his throat, keeping him breathing, intravenous lines in his hands, providing him with various vital fluids - most noticably blood - and everything else he could have expected to see on a life support machine._  


* * *

_

John's mind had wandered back to some days earlier, he and Sherlock had been laughing about a narrow escape from a gunman, John himself, for once, understanding exactly why Sherlock had caused the diversion that had almost seen them both shot. And for once, them both knowing the others thoughts, laughing was easy. It had been what Sherlock was calling a "textbook diversion" although John was quite certain there was nothing quite so "textbook" about carrying a gun yourself, whilst trying to escape from a serial killer with a gun.  
"Oh bloody hell," Sherlock snorted, his laughter ceasing, standing at the window, seeing his brother climbing from a car. "Mycroft," he said, looking slightly disgusted. "I'd better go and answer it. He might try breaking in again otherwise."  
John's laughter ceased with a snort also. He frowned. He knew that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, and that both men respected each other in some sort of a way, but he didn't have much time for Mycroft. There had been many arguments between them both. And he didn't exactly trust him. He stood up and followed Sherlock down the stairs, passing , the landlady, and saying hello.  
"Mycroft..." Sherlock said, opening the door, looking at his smartly dressed brother, and then looking at the cuff of his own shirt, blood stained and damp. "Please do..." he said, as Mycroft pushed his way past his younger brother. "Come in..." For a moment, Sherlock stood on the doorstep, gazing down Baker Street, looking for any signs of any more trouble. He hadn't realised the pain of it until John had dragged him to the floor, trying to shield him from any more shots, dragging him inside, failing to kick the door closed, feeling a bullet fly past his left shoulder at very close range, sent, no doubt, to hit Sherlock in the head, and hearing scream from the top of the house. And just when he thought the firing had stopped, Sherlock, despite coughing up copious amounts of blood, raised his head, looking at John, when another bullet flew at him, tearing into his skull.

* * *

"Still no change?"  
John shook his head, looking at the woman behind him, a colleague of Mycroft's, sent no doubt to check up on Sherlock's condition, not John's. "Nothing," he muttered, listening to the steady beep of the ventilator, his hand, as it had been for hours, fastened firmly around Sherlock's hand. "Not at all," he yawned, screwing his face up in tiredness, crossed with a headache from a lack of sleep.  
At that precise moment, he felt Sherlock's hand twitch, and saw his eyes flickering, though he didn't get his hopes up. As a doctor himself, he'd dealt with head traumas before, and he knew that anything could just be a sign that someone was fighting. That it didn't necessarily mean that they were better, or even awake. And as far as he knew, looking again at Sherlock's eyes, which had stopped flickering, and feeling that his hand had stopped twitching, Sherlock was still in the drug induced coma, brought on from the heavy sedation and anaesthesia. 


	2. Chapter 1

To John, it felt that the last few days had gone very slowly. Sherlock had woken temporarily, for perhaps a few minutes, a few hours ago, but very little had changed. Machines still maintained his life, tubes still maintaining his breathing, bagged fluids still providing him with various drugs, an IV entry point having been set on his right hand, and into which a doctor had injected 5mg of morphine into, and the worst thing about all of this, and John didn't care if it was selfish - he hadn't heard Sherlock's voice for what seemed like months.

_It was the middle of the night, but every time John had tried to sleep, he had been woken by the memory of what had happened - remembering it vividly, the looks he had exchanged with Mycroft, how he had held Sherlock tightly close to him, gotten his blood on his shirt, felt emotions for man he wasn't sure always felt them back, how he had fell to the floor, still clinging on to Sherlock, hitting his own head on the cold, hard floor, passing out and not knowing anything for the fifteen hours he had been unconscious for, and for the several hours that had followed. He understood about patient confidentiality, of course he did, and also he also knew that , Sherlock's mother, would have been Sherlock's next-of-kin, and therefore, the only person that the doctors would speak directly to._

It was the first night, since what had happened, that John had been home. He had tried to sleep on the sofa, upright in an armchair, on the living room floor, and finally, although he knew it wasn't the best idea, he had moved up to his bed, but his door was wide, and he had been staring across the hallway, at the open door opposite, seeing Sherlock's bed, covers neat and pillow unslept on.

It was later, he knew that, but it was still dark outside, so it couldn't have been much later, and someone was shaking him awake.  
"Mr Watson?" The voice had said, several times. "?"  
John opened his eyes, the darkness making it difficult for him to see at first. "What...What's going on?" He asked, staring at the woman who had been shaking him awake. "Is it Sherlock? Is he..." He said, fighting back what his mind what telling him to say. "Is he okay?" Opening his eyes properly, and switching on the bedside lamp, he saw that the woman was the one who called herself Anthea. A colleague of Mycroft.  
"He's fine," she told him, as they sat in the back of a car with blacked out windows. "They're trying to bring him round," she explained. "Mycroft told me to bring you."  
"Oh," John said, but no sound escaped his mouth. He just sat in the back of the car, all the way to the hospital, trying his best not to cry again.

John had fell asleep, lay across three hard, plastic chairs, in the clinical smelling corridor of the hospital. He noticed that Anthea was sat next to him, still constantly tapping away on the touch screen of her mobile phone, despite there being a sign opposite, that warned visitors to turn off their phones. But John was in no mood to argue. "What time is it?" He asked, yawning, opening his eyes.  
"6am," Anthea yawned. She had obviously sat awake for however long they had been there.  
"Any...Any news?" He asked, sitting up, and staring, blankly at the wall opposite, noticing that it was still dark outside, when he noticed that he was looking through a window.  
"Um..." Anthea said. No one had told her anything, so she was unsure of what to say. "I think Mycroft is the best person to...Or that doctor, there," she said, shifting her glance towards the female doctor to John's left, who had just come out of what he assumed to be an office.  
"Excuse me..." John said. "Sherlock Holmes...um...Can you tell me anything?"  
"You're...?" She asked him.  
"John Watson," John explained, not standing up, since he hadn't completely woken up. "Um, doctor Watson...Probably."  
"Ah," the doctor said. "Of course. ' brother told me to find you."  
"Why?" John demanded, suddenly standing up, his legs still feeling half asleep, causing him to stumble forwards a little. "What's wrong?"  
"No..." The Doctor said, shaking her head. "No, no...no, , we've managed to successfully wake from his coma, his brother had to go home, and he asked me to find you, he doesn't want him left alone."

John shuffled nervously. He was still half asleep, hardly able to keep his eyes open, clinging on to the sleeve of Anthea's coat until he sat down beside Sherlock's bed. And as he sat, looking at Sherlock, whose eyes were open, blinking, but who was able to do little else than blink, and smile slightly at John, because of the endotracheal tube that was still helping him to breathe. Speech, John knew, would have been uncomfortable.

A few hours had passed. Mycroft had visited, and left John with a paper cup, now half full with cold coffee, that he had been sipping at for a good hour, in a desperate attempt to stop himself from falling asleep, even if it was a one way conversation he'd been having, since Sherlock, awake, seemingly aware that he was in some sort of pain, even if unable to locate it and unable to talk, had taken to ignoring him.  
"Are you even listening to me?" John yawned, giving up, putting the paper cup down on the floor, next to his chair.  
Sherlock choked something. And it didn't sound pleasent. More abusive that grateful that he wasn't, although John hated to think it, dead.  
"I thought not," he replied, half crying, half laughing, that Sherlock, was at least, being moody. It went someway to explaining what was normal. He suddenly stopped laughing, and it turned to tears. He took hold of Sherlock's hand. "I thought..." He choked, Sherlock's eyes begging him to stop. "I thought I'd lost you."


	3. Chapter 2

It was fair to say that John hadn't been the only one haunted by memories of what had happened. There were things about the way Sherlock had lay during his sleep that afternoon, that told him that. The way his hands had clenched into fists, like he often did consciously, when he was stressed about something, how he had almost kicked John, as though he had been remembering the fight that he'd had with the person from which he and John had escaped.

There was something, John thought, having sat beside Sherlock for most of the day, ocassionally drifting off to sleep himself, about trying to wake somebody that was now merely sleeping, yet still sedated, that was difficult. He'd even cut his fingernails down to stop himself scratching his arms, something had been doing a lot of in the last few days. So pushing his fingers into Sherlock's hand had little effect other than Sherlock digging his longer nails into the backs of John's fingers, and not letting go of John's hand until he had woken - when he had realised his and John's hands were locked together.

John had decided, that after a week of sleeping upright, in a chair, or being interrupted if he had gone home, he would go home, sleep in his own bed, and ignore every distraction that came his way. He'd even put in a pair of ear plugs so he wouldn't be woken by the bin men in the morning. But they hadn't done much good for the noises in his head, every time he did manage to fall asleep. If he weren't hearing the beep of the ventilator that he knew was still keeping Sherlock breathing, he was hearing the sound of gun shot.

Having managed to sleep for at least three hours, despite everything, the nightmares and the noise, thinking how Sherlock had once told him "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end" and had asked "Would that bother you?" He'd never answered that question, but right now, he knew the answer. It did bother him. The only intelligent conversation on a two-way basis, in the last few days, had been with the milkman.

It was still rather early, and he knew he wouldn't be able to go to the hospital until at least 9am, so he was sat in the living room, television on, paying very little attention to it, cup of coffee in his hand, half asleep, due to his lack of an unbroken sleep. He groaned into his coffee; it had gone cold and it was no longer drinkable. So he decided on getting dressed and going to the hospital anyway, even though it was still only just past 7am.

Avoiding people that early in a morning, it turned out, was surprisingly easy. The on-duty nurse in the intensive care unit didn't even notice him walk in and sat back in the chair that he had sat in many days previous, next to Sherlock's bed.

"Morning," John had smiled, when he saw Sherlock open his eyes. "How are you?" Stupid question, he knew. Sherlock was both unable to speak, the tube that went down his throat prevented it from being comfortable, and activated his gag reflex every time he tried to speak. He was obviously still in a lot of pain.

"Brick...wall..." John muttered, to himself, failing to attract the attention of the nurse who was sat in the corner of the room. Whether she was asleep or awake, he didn't know, but her eyes were closed, and he doubted very much if she was listening to anything. Not that it had been particularly important. "Hey," he said, as Sherlock choked some sort of reply at him, whilst squeezing his John's hand tightly. "Don't try to talk. It'll only hurt more."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, in somewhat of a sarcastic way.

_Things_, John thought, returning the look. _Seemed to be returning to normal._ Although, as he thought on, listening to the beep of the ventilator, looking at Sherlock, who was gazing at the ceiling, the only normal thing about this, was that Sherlock was awake. "Oh!" He exclaimed, wrestling his hand, freeing himself from Sherlock's grip. "Too tight." He instead placed his hand on Sherlock's, and smiled. "Better."

Some hours later, early afternoon, visiting hours had been and gone, yet John was still sat there, beside Sherlock, the man he considered a friend. But as someone was gripping his hand, he assumed that nobody had wanted to wake him. "Sherlock..." he mumbled, not opening his eyes. "Get off!" But when he opened his eyes, it wasn't Sherlock. He alertly scanned the room, noticing that he was staring at an empty space, where there had earlier been a bed, and that the person gripping his hand was a doctor. "Where's Sherlock?" He asked, slightly alarmed, slightly yawning.

"It's okay, it's okay, ," the doctor said, she was also being rather friendly about it. "We had trouble with the tracheal tube. We needed an ultrasound scanner."

John just shrugged and didn't say anything. He knew that it was completely possible, but he also knew it was completely unlikely that they needed a scanner to remove the tube, but he didn't say this. He didn't want to say it.

He had waited for an hour before he saw anyone again. An hour he spent walking around the room, which was empty except several monitors and a window. He had stared through the window for about ten minutes, blocking out all noise that he could hear from beyond it, and from the corridors behind him, when he heard a quiet complaining moan behind him. He rolled his eyes, expecting the moaning to get gradually louder, which oddly enough, it didn't. "Any better?" He asked, without turning round. He just kept staring through the window.

"A little." A reply was choked and somewhat strained.

John didn't feel selfish about it anymore. It had been so many days since he had heard Sherlock complain, and things, he decided, however slowly, would get better.


	4. Chapter 3

John knew that he was still some way off having a full constructed, non-stalled conversation with Sherlock, partly because he was unsure what to say, and partly because, according to a doctor who had spoken to John, he was confused, and having trouble remembering things.

"Well," John said, for what happened to be the third time. "You do go looking for trouble." He looked over the top of his newspaper, at Sherlock who, sat up, was staring at him. "And don't look at me like that. You're the bloody lucky one." And he was surprised what followed.

"How?" Sherlock asked, slightly strained, and rather quiet.

"Lestrade said they found the woman who shot you," John said, putting the newspaper down, and folding his arms. "Shot herself. Apparently." He shrugged. "Still, you did bring it on yourself."

And it had been that sentence which had caused John to stay away for almost a week.

"...Or something to that effect..." The first conversation that John had attempted with Sherlock in eight days, wasn't really going that well. He'd just ended up talking for ten minutes, not giving Sherlock a chance to speak. "That's what Lestrade said, anyway.

Sherlock gave him a discerning look, sitting up straight and making sure that no one else was in ear shot before swearing loudly. "Fuck!" He said, immediately lowering his tone, looking at his watch, at John and then through the little window in the door of the hospital room. "I _knew_ it."

"No you didn't," John said - there had been a tone in Sherlock's voice that said he didn't know who John had meant. "You were in a coma for a week, didn't speak for two and now the most anyone gets out of you is the odd argument. I wont pretend that isn't familiar, but it still takes you several minutes to string together a decent sentence." A statement which, before now, had been enough to put Sherlock into a sulk. "Oh," John said, surprised at the reaction it had incured. "You're not sulking." He smiled, noticing that Sherlock wasn't listening. "Nor are you even listening to me..." He trailed off. "But you knew who I meant quick enough, didn't you?" He frowned. "I don't like that, Sherlock, I really don't. And please don't do that. You'll only make it start bleeding again," he added, as Sherlock started rubbing his head, where he had previously been shot. "Text me when you get some sort of vague idea of who you think I mean, wont you? I've left your phone. I'm going to get a coffee." _Or three..._He laughed to himself, knowing things may take a while.

"Ah..." John said, the coffee burning his mouth, the paper cup burning his hands. "Phone..." he muttered to himself, feeling into his coat pocket, for his mobile, which had beeped.

_Really?_

_-SH_

John rolled his eyes. It was his third coffee, and two hours later. But he was hardly surprised. Either Sherlock had waited such a long time so that John would have drunk the amount of coffee he had done - which, John decided, was certainly not beneath him - or it had actually taken him that long to figure it out.

"Ah," John said, bounding back into the hospital room, where unexpectedly, Sherlock was stood, gazing out of the window. "The valium's worn off then?"

"Hmm..." Sherlock said, not turning his attention away from whatever it was he was watching, from the fifth floor.

"Nice to see you upright," John said, sitting back down in the chair he had earlier occupied. "I was beginning to think you were stuck horizontal." But it was clear that they didn't share the same sense of humour. That had always been clear. John wasn't even sure if Sherlock had a sense of humour. "You should be able to go home soon. Tomorrow, probably."

"Soon, yes," John hear a voice from behind him. "Not until he can spontaneously tell us his name and where he is. Sorry, ," the voice said, as Sherlock back up, and sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. He just wanted to go home.

John turned around, to see who was behind him, and subsequently slid down in his chair. He wasn't so keen on having another conversation with the doctor with whom he had had an argument with earlier.

"Well have you ever tried to stop him?"

John looked surprised at this question, and decided to avoid it. "That's not the point. Oh, I hope he can remember where to go!"

"Apparently, he said he was having a bath," John told , the landlady, as she opened the door to 221B for him. "How did he end up back here? I'd better make sure he's not drowned..." He walked into the house, and ran up the stairs, to the bathroom on the top floor, but the bathroom door was open, and although he expected to see exactly what he saw, he slammed the door shut as he stood on the landing. "At least try not to let it bleed again!"


End file.
